Meditations
by viennacantabile
Summary: It's easier to understand when you've been to Narnia, but the Pevensie parents haven't. Four chapter work with a parent and a not so young anymore child in each.
1. one: hero

Disclaimer: I would probably be rich and famous if I owned Narnia. Sadly, I don't.

Note: Revised version. One year after the events of TLTWTW, Mr. Pevensie's been conveniently sent home with a leg injury.

—viennacantabile

* * *

meditations

one - hero

.

For Peter Pevensie, life has always been about what is right and what is not.

And this is why Mr. Pevensie understands when Peter comes home bleeding and exhausted, day after day, with only a mute, helpless look in his eyes to explain where he has spent the last hour and what he has been doing.

After Mrs. Pevensie's tears have dried, Susan, Edmund and Lucy take their brother upstairs to clean his wounds and whisper about secret things only they know. Once, Lucy softly exclaims something that Mr. Pevensie cannot quite hear—"If only I had my cordial!"—but is quickly shushed by the others. It is an oft-repeated ritual by now, and Mr. Pevensie is puzzled by the role-reversal. A year ago, Peter would have been the comforter, the protector. It is strange now, to see the siblings tending their older brother.

But that was a year ago.

Many things may change in a year, Mr. Pevensie reminds himself with a sigh as he wearily trudges up the stairs to Peter's room. He limps a bit on his right side, his wounded leg a souvenir of his time at the front lines and the reason he is with his family now.

There is something about his children that was not present before their father left for the war—a maturity, a self-possession that does not often appear at their ages. Mr. Pevensie can already glimpse the woman that Susan is growing to be—the grace, the dignity. And Edmund is much improved. A quieter, more thoughtful air has settled on his shoulders. And Lucy—Mr. Pevensie smiles—Lucy carries a look of wonder about her, as if she has seen something beautiful that she will never forget.

But Peter—a frown settles over Mr. Pevensie's forehead—Peter alone is unchanged. He is nothing he has not been before. Instead he is perhaps _more_ of himself than he used to be. More intense, more present, more...alive—and more fiercely protective of his family than ever. But in one year, the Pevensie children have matured to many times their age. They are at the age of independence—and no longer in need of a protector. And this is a problem for Peter.

Of his four children, Mr. Pevensie thinks, his eldest son has always been the easiest to understand. Peter is the aptly named rock of the Pevensies—living to keep them safely together. It is his duty, it always has been, and he accepts it with a steadfast determination and a dogged perseverance.

But now that his father is home and has once more taken up the title of the head of the house, Peter does not know what to do. Susan and Edmund chafe at his attempts to look after them—"Honestly, Peter," complains Susan, "I'm only a year younger than you!"—and even Lucy seems to want to shed her dependence. And Peter is lost.

"Like a king without his kingdom," muses Mr. Pevensie suddenly. The analogy is strange to his mind, but oddly fitting. He has reached the top of the stairs, and Mr. Pevensie knocks on his eldest's closed door.

"Peter," he says hesitantly, "Peter, we need to have a talk."

Susan opens the door, giving him a tentative smile and tugging at her hair. "He's fine, Father," she reassures him quietly. "Just—just a bit banged up, is all."

Mr. Pevensie nods absently. Peter is sitting on his bed, propped up against the wall, bruises blossoming all over his handsome face. Lucy and Edmund are squeezed in on either side of him.

"Susan, Edmund, Lucy—I need to talk to your brother."

Edmund gazes at him carefully, then tugs Lucy off the bed. "We'll be in the girls' room," he announced, giving a fleeting look at Peter.

When the door is shut and the sound of footsteps retreating has gone away, Mr. Pevensie perches on the edge of Peter's bed. His son studies the cracks in the plaster walls intently.

Mr. Pevensie furrows his eyebrows.

"What happened, Peter?" he asks quietly.

"They were ganging up on him." Peter murmurs the familiar excuse almost resignedly. "I—I just couldn't stand by and watch."

"I don't mean today," Mr. Pevensie says gently. "Peter...what happened when I was...away?"

Peter flashes a quick look at him with wide, frightened blue eyes, then just as immediately stares at the floor, running his tongue over his split lip. He does wish he could answer, he does, but he just can't.

"Peter," says his father, and Peter has missed him so much that it is hard not to look at him when he hears his father's loving voice. "Tell me."

And because Peter has discovered that it is not so easy to be a hero every day, all of the time, he gives in, for the first and last time. And though he knows his father will not believe him, Peter tells his father all—how Lucy happened upon a wardrobe, how they all stumbled in, how Aslan found them, how they defeated the witch, how they rescued and together ruled the land of Narnia.

"So—now you know," finishes Peter, not daring to look up. They sit quietly for a moment until Mr. Pevensie breaks the silence.

"You know—you've never actually told me whether you've been winning these fights of yours."

Peter finally meets his father's clear blue eyes, so like his own. A grin splits his face.

"I wasn't called Magnificent for nothing, you know."

.

.end.


	2. two: the fairest one of all

Disclaimer: Not C.S. Lewis, 'nuff said.

Note: Big thank-yous to previous reviewers. This takes place just after Prince Caspian.

—viennacantabile

* * *

meditations

two - the fairest one of all

.

Lately, Mrs. Pevensie has discovered Susan's obsession with mirrors.

Susan spends hours at her dressing table, brushing her long hair with long, fluid strokes, repeating them a hundred times and more. But she is reaching much farther than she needs to—and eventually, she must glance down in surprise when the comb slips from her fingertips and clatters to the floor. And Susan's face flushes a bright, terrible color as she stares into the silvered glass, a strangely yearning, strangely longing look on her young face. It is as if she is seeing something _beyond_ the mirror's depths.

She is searching for herself, Mrs. Pevensie thinks, but cannot imagine where Susan might have gone. It is an odd thought, she knows, but Mrs. Pevensie has come to recognize that her children are an odd lot, made even more peculiar by their stay at the Professor's country house during the war. Susan, she realizes now, has never quite come back.

When Mrs. Pevensie knocks at the door to her daughters' room, Susan starts as she once again returns to the world. The face in the mirror crumples for a fraction of a second, as if it has been cruelly deceived. Then she pastes on a brilliant smile and faces her mother.

"Yes, Mother?" she says, in a voice entirely too brittle for her lightness of tone.

For her daughter's sake, Mrs. Pevensie ignores the scattered tissues and the ever-increasing number of powders and bottles at her hands. She too, once believed a mask could transform her. She, too, understands—or so she thinks.

"Susan," says Mrs. Pevensie uncertainly. "There's—there's a young man at the door. For you."

Her eldest daughter's face lights up. "Thank you, Mother," she says, giving Mrs. Pevensie a light kiss on the cheek before leaving the room. "I won't be back late."

When she is gone, Mrs. Pevensie stares at the mirror and she wonders what it is that holds her daughter's rapt eyes to its empty surface. Susan is perfectly lovely, but somehow Mrs. Pevensie knows that it is not Susan Pevensie's face that her daughter is searching for.

With this uneasiness in mind, Mrs. Pevensie's eyes flit toward the bedside drawer that holds Susan's diary. Long moments pass as she deliberates.

But in the end, she stops, because she knows that some things need to be held sacred. And as she quietly leaves, silently closing the door behind her, she wonders, regretfully, where all of her children have gone.

.

.end.


	3. three: turkish delight

Disclaimer: if I owned Narnia, I would just go live there forever, instead of writing fanfiction. Sigh.

Note: Extraordinary children have extraordinary parents, which is what I'm trying to show here. I hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

meditations

three – turkish delight

.

Today, the Pevensie household is in a state of excitement. Mr. Pevensie is due to return from a weeklong visit to Southampton, and six year-old Edmund has been anxiously awaiting his arrival all day.

"But when will he be here, Mother?" Edmund tugs at Mrs. Pevensie's sleeve.

"Just when I told you the last time you asked, Edmund darling," answers Mrs. Pevensie patiently, as she has done half a hundred times this day. "He should be here any minute now."

"But he's late," frets Susan, at nine easily disheartened. "What could have happened?"

"He'll be here," says five year-old Lucy confidently, from the shelter of her mothers arms. "I know he will."

Peter pats Susan's shoulder encouragingly, already the family rock at a mere ten years of age. "Listen to Lucy," he says cheerily. "She's always right, when it comes to Father."

Mrs. Pevensie opens her mouth to say something, then closes it abruptly when the sound of a key in a lock is clearly heard.

"Father!" shrieks Edmund, pelting for the door. The Pevensie children mob the figure in the door with embraces and chattering, while Lucy waves her short arms around in delight.

"Well, now!" laughs Mr. Pevensie. "I can see that you're just fine. No fear, I have presents for you all. But first, a kiss from my sweetheart!" he cries, grinning rakishly. Mrs. Pevensie blushes a bright red, but obliges. "You'll get your present later," whispers her husband conspiratorially in her ear, and she can't help but give him a small smile of her own.

Once untangled from his three older children, Mr. Pevensie looks gravely at his eldest son. "Have you been good, Peter?" he asks mock-sternly. "Have you looked after your mother, brother and sisters in a manner that befits a Pevensie?"

Peter salutes smartly. "I have, sir!"

"Good soldier," smiles his father proudly, clapping him on the shoulder. "And good soldiers get what they deserve, don't they?" He produces a box of tin soldiers. "Now, I expect you to take as good care of them as you do your family, you understand?"

"Yes, Father," says Peter earnestly. "I will."

Mr. Pevensie next rummages in his pocket, taking out an exquisite doll dressed in green satin. "Only the best in all of Southampton shall I give to you, my dear Susan." He smoothes his daughter's hair and speaks to her with gentle affection. "I scoured all the fine shops just for you, Susan darling. I hope you like her."

Susan cannot speak just then, but her shining eyes as she caresses the doll's dark curls and embraces her father are thanks enough. Mr. Pevensie smiles fondly at her, then turns to his youngest son. "And for you, Edmund—something that has made its way all the way from the Orient to meet you!" He adopts a mystical, enigmatic voice. "From the palaces of the sultans, aboard the ships of Britain, across the waves of the Mediterranean—just for you." He deposits a small package in his son's hand.

The boy stares at the square, silver-papered box with wide, curious eyes.

"Oh, stop it," scolds Mrs. Pevensie, a smile twitching around her lips.

"Yes, Edmund Pevensie, you lucky, lucky boy," continues Mr. Pevensie, ignoring his wife, "this little box of the rarest Turkish Delight is all for you! Guard it well, young sir, guard it well."

A smile makes its way onto his small face. "I shall," he says breathlessly, "with my very life, sir!"

Mr. Pevensie salutes him. "And if you are honorable and faithful to your task," he says, winking, "You shall be appointed Captain of the Royal Guard of the Castle Pevensie."

He turns to present a fuzzy golden lion to an impatient Lucy, who is bouncing up and down in her mother's arms. Edmund hears very little though, as he imagines an elaborate promotion ceremony, filled with swords and firing guns and pageantry. It is not until his brother nudges him that he blinks out of his reverie.

"Can we see it?" asks Peter, his voice friendly.

"Go on," urges Susan excitedly. "Open it!"

Edmund shakes his head no. He will save it, he has decided, until he is alone. He clutches the package tightly. Later, he will open the box, and eat a single piece, and it will be the most heavenly thing he has ever tasted. It will also mark Mr. Pevensie's last gift to his son before his departure for the war, and the last time Edmund may easily have the heavily rationed sugar. To Edmund, Turkish Delight comes to represent his father, and the only happiness he has ever known.

It will be two years before the sweetmeat is offered to him again. Two years before the Pevensies' departure for the countryside, and his careless steps into a Wardrobe. And when it is given, he takes it eagerly, only wishing to remember his absent father and taste his love again. But in the end, Turkish Delight brings about the end of Edmund's childhood.

.

Many years later, Mrs. Pevensie cannot understand why her youngest son should refuse the candy he has so loved. After all, the war is over, sugar is freely flowing, and it is a time to celebrate.

But instead—"No, thank you, Mum," he says, ever so politely, his face carefully blank. "I really—I really don't care for it anymore, actually."

This, in itself, is a mystery.

Of all of her children, Edmund has changed the most since they were sent away to Professor Kirke's house in the country. Where once he teased his sisters and sulked at Peter, he is now thoughtfully sober—as if he has learned the value of deliberation before action. It is a change for the better, Mrs. Pevensie reflects, but she does rather miss the bright, impetuous little boy who used to dart about the house chasing shadows. And of the boy Edmund, only a shadow remains. A grave young man inhabits his adolescent body instead.

Mrs. Pevensie supposes this is the way of things, after all. War has produced men out of children for millennia. Though her heart aches for her child not-child, it can't be helped. And so, Mrs. Pevensie only secretly mourns her child's innocence as she speaks of law and politics with Edmund—and only secretly does she wrap the rejected piece of Turkish Delight in her handkerchief and lay it aside to wait in a drawer until the boy Edmund returns again.

.

.end.


	4. four: stargazer

Disclaimer: If I owned Narnia, I would be there right now. Obviously, I'm here, so unfortunately, I don't.

Note: Reviews are love, reviewers are lovely, thank you. This is set after The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, so Lucy's just been told she will not return to Narnia. I would be sad, too.

Music listened to while writing: both Narnia soundtracks, and "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun," by Debussy. Give it a listen, if you ever come across the work.

—viennacantabile

* * *

meditations

four – stargazer

.

Lucy has changed so much.

This is not the first time this has happened, thinks Mr. Pevensie. There was once before, when he was sent back from the war to find that his Lucy had become a little girl with foreign stars in her eyes and a look as if she was always brimming with a delightful secret that was hers and hers alone.

But this time is different. This time, there is only a heavy sorrow that clings to her body like a shadow. There is a soundless mourning in her eyes that he has never seen before. And she is older—so much older—than she ever used to be.

And tonight, she is silent.

After a late supper, Lucy slips out of the country cottage they are living in for the summer. Mrs. Pevensie sees her go.

"Dear, won't you please go talk to her?" she says worriedly, motioning to the door. "You—she always opened up to you, more than anyone."

After a few moments of indecision, he nods, and kisses her lightly. Mrs. Pevensie anxiously watches him go.

Mr. Pevensie finds his youngest daughter lying in the grass behind the cottage. He gingerly sits down next to her, carefully settling his stiff right leg on the ground.

They sit in companionable silence for a time, until Lucy gives a small sigh.

"Lucy, dear," Mr. Pevensie says now, "what are you doing out here at this time of the night?"

"I'm watching the stars come out," she says, so quietly that Mr. Pevensie must strain to hear her. "And—I'm looking for the Leopard. He's late tonight."

"The Leopard," repeats Mr. Pevensie. "Now, that's one I haven't heard of." He lies down on the grass next to her and stares up at the sky. "Do show it to me when you see it, won't you, Lu?"

"Of course, Father," she says. Lucy's clear voice now carries easily over to him in the silence. "But—I'm afraid you won't be able to see him. Even if I show him to you."

"Really now," smiles Mr. Pevensie, playing along with what he supposes is a game. "Whyever not?"

She looks at him and he is startled, because she does not possess the eyes of a child anymore.

"Because you haven't been to Narnia."

At the mention of this name he has not heard for years, Mr. Pevensie feels a strange, but lovely shiver pass through his body. And for a moment, his leg is free of the pain that has dogged him since his return from the battlefield. "Narnia, did you say?" he repeats slowly. "Where's that?"

Lucy heaves a great sigh that seems to contain all of the heartbreak and loneliness in the world. She doesn't answer for awhile.

"Nowhere on Earth, Father," she finally says. "And nowhere I may go again."

They lie in silence. At last, Lucy lifts her hand to the night sky.

"There he is," she says simply.

Mr. Pevensie follows the direction she is pointing to and sees nothing but a great black expanse of sky. "Lucy," he says, puzzled, "Lucy, there's nothing there."

Again she glances at him, and Mr. Pevensie is shocked because she looks so very young and old at the same time.

"He's there," she says, staring straight up at the sky, "but you have to know how to look at the right place, at the right time."

Mr. Pevensie digests this.

"Lucy, I think we'd better be heading inside," he says quietly. "It's getting late."

"You go, Father," she says calmly. "I'm fine, really. Tell Mother it's all right, will you?"

Mr. Pevensie blinks in surprise, and wonders how she knows. He gets up to leave.

"Because I know you and Mother," he hears from the ground. Lucy rolls over and gives him a slight smile so reminiscent of her infant self that the corners of his mouth tug up, in spite of himself. "And I want you to know it's all right."

Mr. Pevensie crouches and pats her tentatively on her golden head. "Right, then," he says, then rises once again to leave. "And—Lucy," he says awkwardly. "I know you're growing up, and, well—your mum and I are always here for you, if you need to talk."

Lucy smiles faintly. "I know, Father."

As Mr. Pevensie opens the door of the cottage, he can't help turning to scan the night for the elusive Leopard, just in case. There is nothing. He sighs, and starts to close the door. And suddenly, for one brief moment, the night is alive with stars—and Mr. Pevensie glimpses the outline of a sinuous feline in their midst. He blinks, and the vision is gone. But for that one moment, Mr. Pevensie believes. And for that one moment, he understands his grown-up child and her unshakable faith, how so much has come to pass in so short a time, and how four such extraordinary children reached the end of their childhood in a single year.

He shuts the door, and Mrs. Pevensie hurries over. "Well?" she asks anxiously.

Mr. Pevensie embraces his wife, feeling an odd sense of lightness. "She's all right, dear," he says quietly. "They all are. Just—a bit worn out, I think. It's the times."

He glances outside. To his surprise, Edmund is now lying next to Lucy. Edmund, too, is different since his stay with the Scrubbs, and for perhaps the same reason as his sister.

"I know, I know," Mrs. Pevensie says fretfully. "But I can't help but wonder what effect that horrid business had on them. They're strong, but—they're still just children, you know."

"No," he says, as Peter takes Lucy's other side. His eldest is nearly a man now, Mr. Pevensie notes with some surprise, and no small amount of regret. "I don't believe Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy have been children for a very long time now."

Mrs. Pevensie sighs. "No, I don't suppose they have. They were robbed of that the moment the war began."

Mr. Pevensie embraces her once again, stroking her hair. "They'll be fine," he says quietly. "I know they will."

Susan—dear, lady-child Susan—joins her siblings last of all, and Mr. Pevensie smiles to see the four huddled together.

"Yes," he says, watching his children soak in the pale, silvery light of stars not of this world. "They'll be just fine."

.

.end.

* * *

I've never actually finished a non-oneshot before (albeit a very small one), so this is rather momentous. That being said, thanks for sticking around to the end.

—viennacantabile

P.S. Reviews are most ardently appreciated. :)


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